


20,000 Francs

by transandre (baelished)



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blowjobs, Desk Sex, I hear “my dear André” and I go feral, M/M, Rare pair time!, This is just porn there’s no plot sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:29:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22259497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baelished/pseuds/transandre
Summary: Before the first performance of Hannibal, Monsieur le Vicomte pays a visit to new opera manager André.
Relationships: Gilles André/Raoul de Chagny
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	20,000 Francs

**Author's Note:**

> Pure unfiltered filth. I don’t think there’s anything anywhere written of these two, but I love them so much. Lowkey based off the, ahem, current André and a recent Raoul.

A rough knock at the door stirs Gilles André, and he finds himself quickly unhinging his feet from where they’ve been resting atop his desk. This habit of his is frowned upon by Firmin, but his old friend is currently off alerting the presses about the news that the young Daaé girl is taking over the role of Elissa in _Hannibal_ tonight. André can’t understand why he’s been left to manage this new fort alone, but he supposes it's lucky he’s here to accept the call of this visitor. 

Once he’s standing, André takes care to smooth his vest, freeing the gentle material of any stray wrinkles. Dressing eloquently every day is a perk of this new position, but the precision involved in such clothes can be a nuisance. In the following moments, André secures his outfit and opens the door to the rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes of the Viscount de Chagny. 

“Monsieur le Vicomte!” he exclaims, surprise echoing his words. “I wasn’t expecting you until this evening.”

Raoul gives a slight bow, which is meant to be polite but begins a chuckle in André’s throat. This young man has more status and wealth than the opera manager could ever dream of. “Monsieur André, it’s a pleasure to see you again. I hope I’ve not disturbed you.”

“No, no!” André starts quickly, ushering the man inside. “Do come in, dear Vicomte. It’s been busy around here, a hell of a first day on the job.” In confidence, André is pleased by the Vicomte’s arrival; it has already allowed the stress eating away at him to subside slightly. 

Curiosity dances in Raoul’s eyes as he removes his hat with all the grace and humility of the opera ballerinas. Those nimble fingers hold the hat’s brim delicately. “Really?”

“Oh, yes,” André replies. “Miss Carlotta Giudicelli had a fit of frantic this morning—quite a disaster if I ever saw one. She stormed out with what I assume to be no intention of returning in time for tonight’s show. We found a chorus girl to sing _Hannibal_ should Carlotta remain away. Sweet young thing, voice soft as satin.”

Raoul’s face has changed from worry to relief during the recap of the circumstances; it’s clear he trusts the managers and their stake on the operation. André wonders how the boy would react if he realized André knows not one lick of what he’s doing. 

“Monsieur,” André begins, eager for an outsider’s opinion. “How much do you know about the _Palais Garnier_?”

“I’ve been attending shows here since I can remember,” Raoul replies. “With my father as a boy, with my brother ever since Father died. But you know this, Monsieur André,” he realizes, words slowing down as confusion flits across his features. “We discussed it upon our first meeting.”

A soft, stressful sigh escape André’s lips. Better the patron knows; besides, if today is any indication, he’ll be hearing about this mystery soon enough. “Have you ever heard anything of an opera ghost?”

Raoul tilts his head, evidently looking for any sign of bemusement on André’s face, perhaps wondering if the man is messing with him. Noticing none, he speaks up. “No, I haven’t. Why?”

André shuffles his feet, eyes focusing on the carpet while he gathers his thoughts. He looks back up at the patron, that sweet, innocent face, and a shiver shudders his spine. He forces himself to speak. “I know it sounds ludicrous, believe me. I’m not sure I believe it myself, or if it’s just a joke meant to scare Richard and myself away, but...everyone seems so sincere. Even Madame Giry, and she’s strict as steel, you know.”

“What have you heard?” Raoul asks. “The theatre is haunted?”

André shrugs. “I’m not sure haunted is quite the word. Everyone seems more enthralled than scared. A tapestry collapsed mysteriously earlier today—that’s what scared Miss Giaducelli off—and the whole place exploded in chaos and excitement. I’m not sure what to make of it.”

Raoul thinks for a moment, eyebrows furrowed on his pale forehead, wrinkles bursting forth that make him look several years older—not that he looks more than twenty to begin with. “It does have all the characteristics of a prank, dear André. I can’t blame you for your skepticism. I’ve not noticed anything awry in all the years I’ve been attending performances.”

“Madame Giry said a curious thing, though,” André begins. This is the part he’s been shy to tell the Vicomte, the one thing he wishes he could avoid. “I feel that as the patron, it’s something you should be aware of.” He pauses, finding the right words, tongue dry. “She mentioned that Monsieur LeFavre paid this so-called Ghost a salary—20,000 francs a month.”

Raoul’s face is unreadable in the dim office light. “20,000 francs for a spectre? A mystery? If there really is a ghost, what on earth would it want with money?”

“That’s exactly my thought,” André tells the young man. “What kind of frights and mishaps could possibly be worth such a sum?”

Raoul shakes his head. “I have no idea.”

André puts a comforting arm around the Vicomte’s shoulder. “My friend, you are not to pay this _Ghost_ ,” —the word is ice off his lips— “until we develop a strict understanding of what’s truly occurring.”

Raoul nods. “Thank you.” He’s silent for a moment, thinking. “What would you do for 20,000 francs, André?”

“Me?” André starts with a bit of shock. “Monsieur le Vicomte, my thoughts of such things are hardly acceptable for professional, gentlemanly conversation.”

“Oh, _Monsieur_ ,” Raoul relays back, curious now, enjoying himself. His cheeks are tinged sunset, a grin slipping out from behind his lips. “Now you simply _must_ divulge.”

“I must _not_!” André replies, breath hot. He doesn’t fully comprehend what’s conspiring between himself and the Vicomte, and is even less sure why he continues on. He won’t admit he’s flustered by Raoul, won’t tell that he’s intrigued by this young rich boy—for a boy is all he is, a pretty young thing with more money than he probably knows what to do with. Doubtless he’s been handed more than his share all his life, doesn’t truly know what it’s like to _want_ something.

“Let’s see,” Raoul starts, excitement buried somewhere in that broad chest. He is nearly childlike in the way his breathless words tumble forth. “A date with one of the ballerinas?”

André raises an eyebrow at the Vicomte.

“No, no, maybe with Miss Giaducelli herself? She seems quite the delight, though perhaps a handful, I’d reckon.” Raoul is letting words fly in the air as if one may veer off and hit André in the head, revealing everything at once.

“Incorrect also,” is all André says.

Raoul doesn’t stop. _Relentless youth_ , André thinks, wondering if that keen young mind does indeed possess the deductive skills to guess what André keeps in his heart. “A date seems too easy, though, I suppose. To sleep with her, perhaps?”

André shakes his head. “No, Monsieur. N-not with Miss Carlotta.” He doesn’t realize the slip until after he’s said it.

Raoul goes quiet, eyes wide. He opens his mouth, closes it again, peers at André. “Then with whom?”

_Damn it._

“You’d have to find someone willing to spend so much on the pleasure of your company,” Raoul is suddenly a trifle more serious, stepping closer to André, who’s currently working his bottom lip between his teeth. He’s realizing that 20,000 francs isn’t a lot for the Vicomte, no more than a drop in the hat. Suddenly his heart is beating fast, too fast. “Someone with the money to allot for your desires.”

“No,” André tries, throat cracking with discomfort and fear. “It’s not important.”

“Oh, but it _is_ ,” Raoul is sly, voice silk and lace, the perfect contrast to André’s staccato stutters. “You don’t want the prettiest dancers in Paris by your side, not the most famous soprano in France in your sheets...so what is it you do want, dear André? What would you do for the promise of 20,000 francs in your pocket? What could you—”

André lunges at Raoul, not meaning to do more than knock the words from his mouth in a bout of playful aggression, but his body betrays him. His mouth is on the Vicomte’s before reality can stamp its foot on his movements. There’s vigor in his kiss, guttural desire, too. Raoul’s hat, which the Vicomte had still been holding, falls to the floor as he drops it in surprise. 

The manager stops, pulls back slowly with his eyes shut, scared to see the boy’s expression. When he does open his eyes, it’s to view a surprising sight: Raoul is smirking. André clenches his fists, fingernails painting half-moons into his palms. 

“You simply _must_ do better than that for 20,000 francs,” the Vicomte says coolly with all the air and pride of a matador, holding André exactly where he pleases. No fear, no shame. If only André could say the same. 

André grabs at Raoul and the man lets himself be grabbed. He pulls the Vicomte close, lips centimeters away from his, buries his hands in those dark locks of hair and kisses him full. Though the patron is relatively thin, André feels the muscles of his arms awakening beneath his coat as he reaches up to paw a hand at the nape of André’s neck. 

The boy is haughty, but André senses he doesn’t have much experience, whether with women _or_ men. His movements are too stiff and his mouth isn’t gentle enough, as if he’s had only a pillow to practice with. This confuses André; a wealthy boy like him must have had more than his share of eager beaus. He doesn’t linger on the thought, however, and instead works Raoul’s lips apart with his tongue. 

The boy practically mewls in agreement beneath him, so André backs him up against the desk, leaning his back against it. Raoul resists, instead pushing forward against the old man, careless teeth catching André’s mustache for a half second. André chuckles deep in his chest, no longer scared of what the Vicomte knows. It seems they’ve all been hiding things. 

“Worth the money yet, dear Vicomte?” André asks dryly, biting Raoul’s lip for good measure. 

Raoul gives a single laugh. “Not nearly.”

“Oh?” André delivers a kiss to the boy’s jaw, nose against his cheek in a soft nuzzle. “Then what would you have me do?”

Raoul looks André over, sending shivers down the manager’s spine, then lifts his knee to rest at André’s crotch, delving his thighs apart slightly. Finding his cock, he nudges it with his knee, making André’s face go pale. 

“Put _this_ to good use,” Raoul demands, retreating his leg with a wry smirk. 

So maybe the boy _does_ know what he’s doing. He certainly knows how to rile a man up, to tease him, to make his thighs stir with the promise of lust. 

“Let’s see now,” André begins, voice above a whisper but soft with the weight of desire. His heart is beating quite quickly, hammering in his throat. His hands slip to the velvet lapels of Raoul’s collar and his lips ghost his chin. “I think this coat would find its full potential on the floor of my office, don't you think?” 

Raoul shrugs out of the material, allowing André to discard the garment in a heap on the far side of the office. Now Raoul’s tuxedo is fully exposed. Such a nice outfit; it’s a shame he didn’t know what he’d be getting himself into. André is thankful he’s already stowed his own coat away inside the managers’ closet. If he was a more polite man, he’d offer the use of the space for Raoul’s clothes, but he can’t afford a wasted second. He wants the Vicomte too badly. 

His fingers work to loosen Raoul’s bow tie, thankful he’s had experience with his own pieces of the troublesome decorative attire. Raoul snakes his hands around André’s neck in order to remove the manager’s own bow tie. The two ties are tossed aside and André rushes for the Vicomte’s jacket. 

“So many layers,” he comments as he peels the boy’s arms free and shucks the jacket away. “What are you hiding under there?”

“You’re one to talk,” retorts Raoul, stealing a quick kiss as his fingers trip over the buttons on the man’s cream-colored vest. This simultaneous unmasking is difficult, but the two are hard-set and determined. The vests come off, then the lace-trimmed button downs. 

Eager as he is to see the boy fully unclothed, André can’t help but marvel at Raoul’s chest, delving his head forward so he may lap at the boy’s nipples. His fingers squeeze a firm nipple as he kisses the other, satisfied at the groan Raoul allows. 

He rains kisses across the Viscount’s chest, then travels back up to nuzzle against his mouth, tracing his tongue against those perfect teeth as his hands stroke chiseled cheekbones. 

“And what do you want me to do to you, dear Vicomte?” he asks, admiring the young man with a swirl of lust and admiration clouding his own mind. 

“That’s in my jurisdiction,” snaps Raoul. There’s a smile hiding behind his lips, affection dancing in the fingertips that stroke André’s sideburns carefully. “ _I’m_ the one paying for your services. And I believe I told you—” he shoves a hand down André’s slacks, grasping his cock and squeezing it with a snap of the fist. “To use this.”

André jerks back in surprise, gasps, whines. He attempts to thrust his hips against the boy to allow himself a hint of friction, but Raoul has already removed his hand. He’s back to kissing André, making no move to help the manager remove his pants, so he’s left to unbutton his trousers on his own, stumbling over the meddlesome fabric as he pulls it down. He then proceeds to help Raoul out of his slacks. The two make sure to kick off their shoes as soon as the pants are off, and then there are more kisses as André slides his hands down to free Raoul of his own underclothes. 

The waistband of Raoul’s drawers is laced with tight, ornate strings—of _course_ it is, and André succeeds mainly in making a mess of the threads as he tears them every direction, mouth stiff against Raoul’s pale neck. When he _finally_ loosens them, André yanks them down and wraps his hand around the young man. He’s not exactly hard yet, but André is pleased he isn’t completely limp. He gives him a few strokes, hoping to draw out a few moans, but to his surprise, Raoul slaps his hand away. 

“Get undressed, old man,” the Vicomte growls, a smile teasing his lips as he steps back and narrows his eyes at André, who grits his teeth and pulls down his smallclothes. Raoul’s eyes go straight to his cock, which is on its way to full erection thanks to the tease Raoul has been providing. André, though not short on pride, feels heat rush to his cheeks as the boy’s mouth twitches. 

André isn’t sure what should come next, wants his own mouth on the boy’s pretty dick but knows it’s best to succumb to what Raoul has demanded. Cautiously, André places his hands on the Vicomte’s shoulders and pushes him down. Raoul follows suit, landing gracefully on his knees. 

“You can—” André starts, but is halted the second Raoul’s fingernails dig roughly into the soft flesh of his thighs. 

“Hush,” he orders, nuzzling at André’s cock with gentle lips. “Don’t speak. I want only to hear you moan.”

André swallows the curse that rises in his throat, nods vigorously. Satisfied, the Viscount takes André in one hand, fingers splayed in the nest of hair on his pubic bone, and sucks him down. 

André throws his head back, thighs stiffening. This, he believes, is heaven on earth. He forces himself to look down, watching himself disappear into the mouth of this beautiful young thing beneath him. He cards a hand into the boy’s perfectly coiffed hair, pulling ever so gently. 

Raoul trails the tip of his tongue along the underside of André’s cock. He’s not an expert; his movements are uneven and his teeth are caught in the way, but the determination and sheer power in his aura more than make up for it. André is melting from his licks, his touches. A flick of tongue on his head, a squeeze at his balls. It isn’t long before he’s rock hard. Raoul, appearing to have the time of his life, sucks André in and out with a careful rhythm, humming gently around the girth of him. His fingers flank the man’s thighs, keep the base of his dick in check. When he pulls away, a smile crosses his lips. 

Raoul taps the man’s cock, watching it bounce. This ploy is almost catlike in its bemused innocence, and André grins. 

“Don’t get too excited on me, Monsieur,” the Vicomte breathes, lips plush against the side of Andre’s length. “This is just a personal courtesy. You could not expect me to ride you should you not be hard enough. You seem to be having no trouble, though. Seems you’re holding up well enough.” 

André opens his mouth to whine out the boy’s name, then remembers the order. He snaps his lips shut, resorting to a strangled moan as his cock is sucked with all everything the boy has. He feels himself hit the back of Raoul’s throat and his knees buckle. 

Raoul, satisfied, lets the cock dangle from his mouth, dropping it and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He stands up, kisses André on the cheek almost delicately. 

“Do you know how to ready me?” Raoul asks. The flicker in his eyes is one of mischief, a soft glimmer of lustful excitement. 

André merely nods, and Raoul leans forward against the managers’ desk, stomach rubbing against the wood, legs shoulder-width apart. For now, his head is held high; once he is set, he looks back at André with an air of impatience. 

André bends down, hands ghosting the curve of the boy’s ass, squeezing the skin softly, then damning him with a slap. Raoul jerks forward at the sensation. 

“You like that?” André asks, nerves edging into his head, worried for an instant that he’s going to falter somehow and make the Vicomte storm out.

“ _Yes,_ ” Raoul hisses, voice thin and dangerous despite the affirmation. “But I’d like it more if you’d hurry up and get inside me already.”

André dips his head in an apology, settling on his haunches now to examine the Viscount’s ass from eye-level. He spreads the boy’s pale cheeks, rubbing his thumb gently over his hole and smiling at the shiver that shakes Raoul’s body. He presses just the tip of his finger at the entrance and is met with a pulse of resistance. 

For all his pride in the matter, André muses again on his guess that this is the first time Raoul has been with a man beyond his own imaginations. This thought makes André’s cock twitch between his legs. The prize of the Vicomte’s purity is not lost on him, and as he sucks his fingers between his teeth to wet them, euphoria dances behind his eyes and stirs in his groin. 

Now that his fingers are dampened, André circles one around the Vicomte’s hole, fighting with the ring of muscle to slip it inside. Even with the added lubricant, he’s tight as hell. Raoul curses at the intrusion, hands curled into fists atop the desk. 

André shushes him kindly but cautiously and finds he isn’t met with any remark. He pushes his finger deeper inside Raoul, keeping it sturdy while the boy attempts to relax around him. Once he has a full finger buried in the Vicomte’s ass, he stops moving. Raoul whines, probably wracked by discomfort. _Sweet boy,_ André thinks, smiling to himself. _We’ve only just begun._

André begins to move the lone finger, probing it in and out with a gentle rhythm. The sensation of the boy’s ass stretching around him makes the manager lightheaded, but he doesn’t stop moving. 

“Come on,” Raoul demands, voice wavering just a bit. “I can take another.” He doesn’t sound as sure as his words imply. 

André chuckles at the impatient Viscount. Deciding the wet finger isn’t enough lubricant, André spits, dripping saliva on the boy’s hole. Raoul is shaking, and André trails his free hand down his spine gently while he urges another finger inside. Raoul stiffens again, moans, slams his fist down on the desk. 

“ _André,_ ” he breathes, and André’s heart nearly stops. Determined now, he pushes the two fingers in deeper, scissoring them and opening Raoul’s ass by centimeter. He could get used to this, exploring this young virgin and seeing what noises he can draw out of him. André places a wet kiss to the back of the boy’s thigh, hoping the sensation distracts Raoul enough that the deep shove of his fingers may tease his prostate.

The Vicomte yelps, head fallen so far forward that his nose presses against the managers’ desk. His face is flushed red, brow dampened with sweat. 

“Getting your money’s worth yet, Monsieur?” André taunts, fingers still working him open, satisfied with his progress. 

“Fuck me,” is all Raoul says. 

André pulls his fingers out quickly, and Raoul whines sharply, whether from pain or anger André isn’t sure. He takes a second to spit on his hand, drags it down to his cock and gives himself a couple strokes. Raoul is bent over the desk with shaky legs, head craned back to watch André as he lines his cock up with the boy’s swollen hole. 

André pushes inside the Vicomte carefully, one hand grasping his shoulder for leverage. Raoul grunts loudly, and André matches the noise with one of his own, overtaken by the tightness of the boy around him. 

“Raoul…” André whines as he gets half his cock inside him, for a second forgetting the boy’s title. Raoul doesn’t seem to mind or care, just breathes out hard, hands tightened into sweaty white fists. André figures when you’ve got your dick in someone’s ass, the lack of proper titles is excusable.

It takes several moments, but André finally buries himself inside the Viscount, who has stopped making jabs and comments and seems to only be focusing on remembering how to breathe. André runs a hand down his back gently, and Raoul growls out “move” through gritted teeth. 

André gladly obeys. He sets up a rhythm that isn’t fast enough to be brutal, but slow enough to give Raoul a period of adjustment. Raoul’s body, for all his work and words, has gone fairly limp, and he’s leaning on the table and letting André’s movements move him as well. 

André has fucked virgins before—men are curious, men are secretive, men come to André and speak their desires because André is so _obviously_ the one to experiment with—but Raoul is different. He’s tight, oh yes, and he’s certainly well responsive, but even when André fucks him, the manager has the sense that he isn’t fully in control. And he is surprised at how much he likes that. 

“You good?” André asks, rubbing a finger softly along his neck. He glances down at the spot where his cock is disappearing into Raoul’s ass, and the sight makes his balls clench. André wills himself to calm down, leaning forward to kiss Raoul’s silky shoulders. 

“I want to ride you,” Raoul says, and André knows he’s a goner. He would give _anything_ to this boy. Absolutely anything. 

He pulls out slowly, and Raoul, though sweaty and heavy-lidded and looking for all accounts like a little fuckdoll, stands up and pushes André to the desk and urges him to sit on it. 

“I don’t know if the desk can hold–” André starts as he secures himself on the wood, but Raoul waves his hand. 

“I’ll buy you a new one.” And then he climbs on top of André, hanging his arms around his neck. He kisses André hungrily, darting his tongue against his teeth as André fumbles to get his cock inside the Vicomte. Once he does, Raoul starts riding him, and André swears he is going to die here and now. 

Raoul had let André have the upper hand for a bit, fuck him til he got used to the sensation, and now it’s Raoul’s turn. He rides André like he was born to do it, gripping the manager’s shoulders and making the most beautiful, slutty noises against his lips. André lets himself be used, whining out at the beautiful tight heat of Raoul on his cock, eyes closing instinctively then snapping open so he can watch the boy at work on top of him. 

“Does Firmin know?” Raoul wants to know, thrusting his hips so that his leaking cock is plush against André’s sizable belly. André takes the incentive to grip it with one hand, the other resting tightly on the small of Raoul’s back. 

“I don’t want to talk about Richard right now,” says André. 

“But does he know?” Raoul asks again, sighing contentedly as André’s hand strokes him in time with Raoul’s own motions. 

“We’ve fucked, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Ooh, how delightful,” says Raoul. “Maybe I’ll ask him to join us and we’ll destroy _you_ next time.”

André whines at that concept. He takes the spot of whatever his partner needs, pliable and willing, whether that means he’s giving or taking dick. He looks down at Raoul’s dick, leaking all over his hand, and his own cock throbs as he imagines it inside him. 

“We fuck when he’s having problems with his wife,” says André. 

“Oh, so you’re his side bitch?” Raoul asks, and André chokes at that. He’s not wrong. Raoul slows down his motions a little, nuzzling at André’s sideburns and ghosting his lips over the crest of his ear. “You’re my bitch now, Gilles André.”

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” is all André can say, face going red, hardly able to feel his body anymore. He screws his eyes shut, the heavenly sensation of Raoul around his cock making everything else on this earth secondary. Raoul’s hands snake around his neck, tighten in his hair, and yank his curls, making him toss his head back. 

“Come on, old man,” urges Raoul, and he starts fucking him with all the energy and heart of his twenty-two years, and André’s body can’t keep up with it anymore. He isn’t so much stroking Raoul’s cock anymore as Raoul is thrusting it into André’s hand. 

André moans loudly, and he comes inside Raoul with a gasp, spurting his seed once, twice, three times. Raoul milks him through it, bouncing on him hard, and André’s body shudders and jerks as he’s spent. He gives a hard, calculated jerk to Raoul’s cock with the last of his energy and Raoul comes too, spilling in streaks all over André’s hand and belly. 

André rests his sweaty forehead against Raoul’s heaving chest, holding the boy close to him. They stay like that for several moments, neither of them saying anything, just reveling in the post-orgasm haze that André thinks equals the closest to heaven he’ll ever get. 

“Where are my 20,000 francs?” André asks softly, voice cracking with the effort of speaking. 

Raoul laughs, kisses André’s forehead. “How about I pay you in orgasms instead?” 

“Mmmm,” replies André. “Works for me.”

Raoul climbs off him, and André stares wordlessly at the come seeping out of his asshole. A strike of pride hits him, and he yawns happily, getting up off the table too. 

They sort through their clothes silently, dressing quickly, both suddenly aware of how much time this has taken. André wishes he was younger so they could have another go, but it’s late and the Vicomte still needs to talk to Firmin about finances and André needs to speak to the Daaé girl again before curtain. 

“I shall call upon you again,” says Raoul, fastening his bow tie. 

“See you tonight,” André replies, and presses himself against the Vicomte, kissing him breathlessly, sighing against those precious, swollen lips. “Our box, yes?”

“Ha,” Raoul says. “Don’t try anything, Monsieur.”

“I make no promises,” André assures him, and kisses his hand grandly before opening the door for him. 

“My dear André,” replies Raoul with a smile as he exits. “I would not expect anything less.”


End file.
